


haters gonna hate hate hate

by orphan_account



Series: the 1989 chronicles [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bloodplay, Bondage, Bottom Crowley, Bottom Dean, Dean is a dick, Humiliation, King of Hell Dean, Light BDSM, M/M, Mark of Cain, Oral Sex, Season Ten, Top Crowley, Top Dean, crowley has a huge dick, crowley is a huge dick, dean has a dick, not deanmon but close, not so light bdsm, sort of, throne blowjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 18:08:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5137559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley is have sex with Dean. He wants the whole world to know!</p><p>The world doesn't believe him. </p><p>(otherwise known as: crowley both hates and loves being the other woman)</p>
            </blockquote>





	haters gonna hate hate hate

**Author's Note:**

> part one of eleven fanfics inspired by 1989 by taylor swift. i'm not kidding.

As with many things, this story starts and ends with Dean Winchester's penis.   
  
-  
  
There's a victim's mother, and she's a Catholic, and because the demon in question is a rogue and acting outside of her purview Father Crowley makes a visit.   
  
And because Crowley is a dick, and has a dick, and said dick is spending more and more time embedded in Dean Winchester's delectable arse --   
  
Well. Crowley's a little sick of the sneaking around, isn't he? He feels like someone's dirty secret.   
  
Not to say that he _isn't_ Dean's dirty secret -- he knows that he is -- but he's sick of being made to feel that Winchester is _superior_ to him. Damn it, he should be the one trying to hide Winchester -- it doesn't look great for his image now, does it? -- King of Hell taking a Winchester to bed, not even taking his soul in the process.   
  
But everyone in Hell knows because Dean is _loud_.  
  
Fortunately for Crowley the things Dean shouts are along the lines of: _yes oh God yes, harder, deeper, fuck me harder_ \-- and when Crowley asks things like _are you my bitch_ or _who's your Daddy?_ Dean is obliging enough to respond _you are yes you are_ \-- and that, at least, gives the demons an inkling of the true power relationship at work, and salvages the King's reputation a little.   
  
So. Everyone Crowley works with knows that he's fucking the older Winchester every spare moment he gets.   
  
But Winchester's friends don't.  
  
This is not right.   
  
Crowley will remedy this.   
  
Maybe it will lead to some truly _spectacular_ hate sex.   
  
\--  
  
Crowley gets his chance with this widow. She's mewling. She's messy. God, he hates it when humans cry.   
Actually, he doesn't always. He's made tears leak out of Dean's eyes a couple of times, and that was fucking fantastic.   
  
He looks over at Dean. The plump lower lip, the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the cold green of his eyes. Genocidal eyes. The hands of a butcher. Sammy thinks that his brother is domesticated and safe, but Crowley knows better -- knows different -- and he knows _Dean_.  
  
So, when the widow says, "Do you know each other?" Crowley can't help but respond --   
  
"Oh, Dean was a delicious little choirboy. I had him in the confession booth umpteen times; tight as a vice and took it like a champ. Sucked cock like he'd been doing it for years. Which, to be fair, he had been doing. Anyway, I lost interest when he hit puberty -- but I want to take this oppurtunity to say Deany, baby, you're still young enough to call me Daddy -- want another ride on my pew?"  
  
\--  
  
It doesn't go down terribly well.   
  
Dean turns white with fury. Sam chokes.   
  
The widow utters a thin, strangled sound.   
  
It's fucking _hilarious_.   
  
\--  
  
"What the hell was that?" Dean says.   
  
He's angry. That's the first step towards some good old fashioned hate-banging. Crowley's cock gives a little twitch at the thought -- s _hoving Dean onto his knees, cramming his mouth full_ \--   
  
Dean's glowering, pouting, and very not naked.   
  
Hmm.   
  
Perhaps Crowley didn't think this through.  
  
"Love, anyone would think I'm your mistress."  
  
"You are," says Dean, without missing a beat. "Sam'll get jealous if he can smell your perfume on me. Seriously. Don't go saying shit like that. They'll -- "  
  
"Suspect that you're getting it from me on the DL?" Crowley purrs. He drops his voice an octave or two, stalks forward. He knows Dean. Knows what gets his engine revving.  
  
And he's right. Dean's pupils blow black and huge.   
  
"Think that the King of Hell is fucking you so hard you _weep_  and you're loving every _second_  of it, you filthy filthy _slut_  -- "  
  
Crowley runs the point of one finger up Dean's shirt.   
  
They're in the bunker. Crowley's used to coming when called.   
  
Dean mashes their mouths together. Crowley smirks, craning his neck back, kissing deep and greedy. Dean's tongue is a fucking wonder. The King of Hell bites it, sucks on it until Dean's moaning, heedless of the fact that his saliva is tinged pink with his own blood.   
  
Nasty and violent. It's how they both like it.   
  
He tugs his trousers down, shoves Dean onto his knees. Winchester goes willingly, a sharp smile turning up the corners of his mouth. He's a predator. How can they not _see_  that?  
  
When Dean was a demon he never bottomed. One look at Crowley's cock and he vetoed any and all 'butt stuff'. Instead, their -- what was the right word? --   _b_ _usiness partnership_  consisted largely of Crowley sucking Dean off. And Dean-as-a-demon was not exactly a considerate lover. He saw things like safewords and 'warning your partner you're going to give them a facial' as uncessary and probably gay.  
  
It's not that Crowley didn't like that sex.   
  
He just prefers / _his_  sex.  
  
Dean bends over for him, and utters this half-disbelieving sound as Crowley slides his dick in -- inch by silken inch.   
  
And then he fucks him into next week.  
  
\--  
  
Next week, and Crowley's not satisfied.   
  
Well. He _is_  satisfied because he's got a strong young -- well, youngish; Dean's starting to slide onto the wrong side of thirty -- thing in his bed, and said strong young thing has suddenly realised that his _favourite_ thing in the known and unknown world is for Crowley to lick him open before e fucks him, and watching Dean Winchester dissolve into a puddle of shame-sodden goo is _wonderful_.  
  
Rimming aside, Crowley's still not happy.   
  
Because he is _still_  sneaking around like he's the hot young thing Dean's fucking on the side, while Sam -- the devout older wife -- is good enough to take to church and parade in front of the neighbours, even if they do only fuck once a week, in the missionary position, with the lights off.   
  
Okay, Crowley's metaphors are getting away from him.  
  
But a man -- or a not-man -- has his pride. And being Dean's booty call is one thing, but being Dean's bootycall when Dean insists on soundproofing his room, and never lets Crowley wander around the bunker (everything saves Dean's room is warded to fuck and back against demons), and never _never_ gives Crowley the same courtesy --   
  
(see above: Dean's loud in bed, begging Crowley to fuck him until all seven strata of Hell knows how the Winchester likes it)  
  
(for those who are interested: the Winchester likes it hard and vicious and deep, and preferably three times a night)  
  
\-- it just gets a little _much_.  
  
And the hate-sex element has faded. It's just rough sex. And hair-pulling and biting, and flogging and tying-down, can only do so much for a guy.   
  
Of late, he thinks that Dean's only hurting him because he knows that Crowley _wants_  to be hurt, and not because Dean himself wants to hurt Crowley.   
  
And that's not right at all.   
  
Because he doesn't miss Demon Dean. That monster was _feral_. No, he likes the conflict and shame and pain and _Daddy issues_ of the human Dean. He likes the tears that leak down Dean's cheeks when Crowley gets him at a particularly cruel angle. He likes pinning Dean down, flogging him til he bleeds and fucking him through the burn.   
  
He likes leaving marks so bad that Dean has to lie about an impromptu bar fight in order to justify himself to Sam.   
  
But it isn't _enough_.  
  
So Crowley decides.   
  
Time to let the cat out of the bag.   
  
\--  
  
"I'm fucking your brother," he says to Sam.   
  
Sam caws out his ugly laugh. "Yeah," he says, "right. Look, are you gonna help us with this guy or not?"  
  
It's another rogue demon. This one seems to working in league with his mother.   
  
But that's not why Crowley is here.   
  
"I don't think you heard me moose. I'm fucking Dean. I'm _fucking Dean_. Pretty much every night. I have him on his knees, sucking my cock, or I rim him then fuck him sore and gaping wide, and then I cum inside him."  
  
Sam's face screws up in open revulsion. "Yeah, if you want to screw with me there are less gross ways of doing it."  
  
Normally, Crowley would be ecstatic to rattle Moose quite so comprehensively.   
  
But this isn't normal.   
  
"I'm not lying. I -- "  
  
"I'm not listening to this anymore," says Sam.   
  
And he packs his laptop up, and flounces towards the door like a princess.   
  
"Why won't you _believe_  me?" wails Crowley.   
  
\--  
  
"I tied Dean up on a St Catharine's wheel, flogged him with a riding crop and fucked him. And then I sucked him off for half an hour. Kept edging him -- let him get close and then pulled back -- and when he did cum it was like a flood, a tide."  
  
Bobby shoots him.   
  
"This is _Heaven_ ," squalls Crowley. "Why do you have a _gun_?"  
  
"She's my soulmate," says Bobby. "Her name is Betsy. Now get off ma property!"  
  
\--  
  
"Dean likes to be eaten out. I use my tongue on him, in him, slow and dirty -- I've got some magic, don't fret -- and I clean him out with that, then I just go _downtown_. To funky town."  
  
"I do not understand," says Cas. His eyes are flat, blue and uncomprehending. Then something lights in their depths. "Actually, yes. Sam warned me about this. You are _screwing with me_." He pronounces the words like they're his first in a new language. "Go away, or I will smite you."  
  
Crowley doesn't fancy his chances. He snaps his fingers, and finds Dean lounging in his throne.   
  
"How did you get here?"  
  
It's the first time that Dean -- human Dean -- has come to Hell. This whole sordid affair has been conducted above-ground -- in motel rooms and the bunker, in the Impala and behind fast food resturants and once, memorably, in a church. But here Dean is, bold as brass, and there's something cheeky in his smile --  
  
But no. No. Not cheeky. There's not meant to be any _malice_ in cheeky.   
  
"Where are the guards?"  
  
"They ran. They're scared of me. I'm a Winchester."  
  
He's different. Oh, he's still human -- but without Sam or Castiel there to smooth out the edges he's letting himself sprawl into the dark bits of himself, and he's a _predator_.  
  
"Why have you been telling everyone that we're fucking?" Dean asks.   
  
They used to call him the Butcher, Crowley thinks suddenly. Back in the day -- before the Cage opened, before the apocalypse started and ended -- when the First Seal had just been split open, the Righteous Man shedding blood in Hell, Dean Winchester under Alastair's tutelage. They had named Dean the Butcher, fretful and fearful and cringing from his step.   
  
Dean, sans Mark, had been as terrifying as any demon.  
  
It takes a special kind of man to be named _the Butcher_ in Hell and Crowley is struck -- is horrified -- by how at ease Dean is in his throne.   
  
He's got his legs slung up over the arm, arms crossed behind his head.   
  
The smile crooks high.   
  
"Because I don't like being the other woman."  
  
"Oh sweetie, I ain't never gonna leave her for you. She's my baby. You're my whore."  
  
"The other way round, surely," says Crowley. A thrill dances hot fingers down his spine.   
  
"I don't think so."  
  
"What's got into you?"  
  
"I've been thinking. And I've been thinking some more." He rubs at the crook of his arm. The Mark is there, branded bright and vicious. Crowley's never allowed to touch it. He wants to, but Dean has his limits, and Crowley has some respect for that -- if for nothing else. "And all I can think is...I like things how they are, and you don't get to change that."  
  
"I get to do what I want."  
  
"Yeah. Yeah you do. And right now, right now what you want is to get on your pretty knees and suck me off."  
  
Crowley's aware of a subtle shift in the air. Hell, it seems, is watching.   
  
Dean swings his legs back down, splays open his knees in a flagrant, obscene invitation.   
  
"C'mon babe," says Dean, teeth sharp and tongue dashing out to lick at his lower lip, "come on."  
  
Crowley should resist. He really should. He's got his dignity --   
  
No he's not.   
  
He stumbles forwards, lunging half into Dean's lap, sucking his tongue into a wet, starved kiss. Dean cups Crowley's face in his palms and bites, bites, bites until Crowley's lower lip hangs in warm shreds. He heals it -- well, tries to -- but it's pretty difficult to keep the healing up when Dean's intent in causing as much damage as possible.   
  
He's grinning when he pulls away, and his mouth is red and shining.   
  
"I've just decided," says  Dean. "That we're gonna change a couple of things after all. Now _kneel_."  
  
Crowley does.   
  
And Dean slaps him: open-handed and careless. Crowley sucks in a breath and grins, grins, grins.   
  
Yes. _Perfect_

\--

Three hours later, and Crowley zaps them back into the bunker. There’s only one room that’s not warded against him and it’s Dean’s.

Unfortunately, Dean’s room is not empty.

The wife is there.

Sam’s eyes fly wide when he sees Crowley. Crowley could have healed himself. He hasn’t. He’s got a black eye and purple bitemarks rising like stormclouds over his collar; a swollen, blood lower lip that’s patterned with an array of oozing scabs.  He’s got bruises on his wrists.

He’s also not wearing pants.

He _reeks_ of sex.

Alright, maybe the last thing is more noticeable than the smell. Crowley’s not wearing pants.

Or boxers.

Sam’s trying -- and failing -- not to look at Crowley’s cock.

Crowley can’t help himself. He laughs, long and loud and triumphant.

“Tell you what Sammy, next time you can join in. Dean likes to be watched.”

With that the King of Hell flickers his fingers and vanishes.

He hasn’t been this happy in a long _long_ time.

 


End file.
